first, but he’s a prick about being paid on time. You eat what you kill, and that’s the bottom line.”
Slammer’s rapid-fire voice fades as I move slowly into my cubicle, sit down in the chair, and gaze at the dark computer screens. This is it. Suddenly it’s up to me and me alone to make it happen. No more events I can’t control, like pricing discounts by big competitors, getting in my way. The only thing that matters from here on out is what my scoreboard says at the end of every day. Up or down. And that’s totally up to me. Bedford is everything I hoped it would be, and it already feels like I belong.
CHAPTER 5
The Grand is a pricey steakhouse located on the ground floor of the same office tower that’s home to Bedford & Associates. Dimly lit and tastefully furnished, it has all the extras one would expect of a hangout for movers and shakers or those who want to be. There are always tables—and even waiters—reserved for regulars, magnum bottles of wine and champagne, and a cigar menu fit for Jack Kennedy. The walls are covered by caricatures of national and local celebrities who frequent the place—professional sports team owners, politicians, and prominent venture capitalists who’ve led the area’s technology explosion.
The Grand also has a large bar, even more dimly lit than the restaurant, where people wait for tables or simply their next martini. I’ve read about this place in the Washington Post but never had the money to afford the menu. Until today I’ve been a midlevel, old-economy sales assistant with a negative net worth. But now things are different. Now I’m a day trader with a bankroll.
Vincent Carlucci stands with his back to the Grand’s dark wood bar, nursing his standard gin and tonic. Dressed in a blue warm-up suit and white Reeboks, a thin gold chain hanging from his neck, Vincent looks out of place in the middle of the business suits all around him. There’s disdain for him in the expressions of some as they glance his way, but he doesn’t care. We’ve been friends for a long time and so I know he’s never cared what others think. It’s a trait I’ve always admired.
A wide grin lights up his broad, olive-skinned face when he sees me. “You’re looking good, pal,” he says as we shake hands. “As always.”
“Thanks.” Years ago Vincent and I were teammates on our high school football team. After we won the state championship our senior year, he went to the University of Virginia on a full scholarship and played pro ball for two years, while I rode the Roanoke bench and then went to work for Russell in paper sales. But Vincent always stayed in touch with me and visited whenever he could. When he moved from New York City to D.C. five years ago, we started getting together regularly. “You look good too.”
“Hey, Joe.” Vincent motions to the nearest bartender, who interrupts the order he’s about to take from another guy. It’s after seven and the place is packed with people trying to get a drink, but Vincent is served right away. It’s always been easy for him to get attention. “My buddy needs a scotch and water.”
After so many years, Vincent knows that scotch is my drink of choice, and a moment later I’m holding a glass of Dewar’s.
“Good to see you, Augustus,” he says, gently tapping his glass against mine. “I’m glad you could make it tonight.”
“This place turned out to be really convenient.” Vincent called me at home yesterday to arrange dinner this evening. “And it was time for me to start getting out again,” I add softly.
His expression turns somber. “I’m sorry about Melanie.”
“Thanks, and thanks again for coming to her memorial service. I needed you there.”
“Sure.” He takes a sip from his nearly empty glass of gin. “Are you holding up okay?”
“Some days are better than others.” I take a couple of large gulps to catch up. God, the scotch tastes good. I can feel it relaxing me immediately.
Slammer’s rapid-fire voice fades as I move slowly into my cubicle, sit down in the chair, and gaze at the dark computer screens. This is it. Suddenly it’s up to me and me alone to make it happen. No more events I can’t control, like pricing discounts by big competitors, getting in my way. The only thing that matters from here on out is what my scoreboard says at the end of every day. Up or down. And that’s totally up to me. Bedford is everything I hoped it would be, and it already feels like I belong.
CHAPTER 5
The Grand is a pricey steakhouse located on the ground floor of the same office tower that’s home to Bedford & Associates. Dimly lit and tastefully furnished, it has all the extras one would expect of a hangout for movers and shakers or those who want to be. There are always tables—and even waiters—reserved for regulars, magnum bottles of wine and champagne, and a cigar menu fit for Jack Kennedy. The walls are covered by caricatures of national and local celebrities who frequent the place—professional sports team owners, politicians, and prominent venture capitalists who’ve led the area’s technology explosion.
The Grand also has a large bar, even more dimly lit than the restaurant, where people wait for tables or simply their next martini. I’ve read about this place in the Washington Post but never had the money to afford the menu. Until today I’ve been a midlevel, old-economy sales assistant with a negative net worth. But now things are different. Now I’m a day trader with a bankroll.
Vincent Carlucci stands with his back to the Grand’s dark wood bar, nursing his standard gin and tonic. Dressed in a blue warm-up suit and white Reeboks, a thin gold chain hanging from his neck, Vincent looks out of place in the middle of the business suits all around him. There’s disdain for him in the expressions of some as they glance his way, but he doesn’t care. We’ve been friends for a long time and so I know he’s never cared what others think. It’s a trait I’ve always admired.
A wide grin lights up his broad, olive-skinned face when he sees me. “You’re looking good, pal,” he says as we shake hands. “As always.”
“Thanks.” Years ago Vincent and I were teammates on our high school football team. After we won the state championship our senior year, he went to the University of Virginia on a full scholarship and played pro ball for two years, while I rode the Roanoke bench and then went to work for Russell in paper sales. But Vincent always stayed in touch with me and visited whenever he could. When he moved from New York City to D.C. five years ago, we started getting together regularly. “You look good too.”
“Hey, Joe.” Vincent motions to the nearest bartender, who interrupts the order he’s about to take from another guy. It’s after seven and the place is packed with people trying to get a drink, but Vincent is served right away. It’s always been easy for him to get attention. “My buddy needs a scotch and water.”
After so many years, Vincent knows that scotch is my drink of choice, and a moment later I’m holding a glass of Dewar’s.
“Good to see you, Augustus,” he says, gently tapping his glass against mine. “I’m glad you could make it tonight.”
“This place turned out to be really convenient.” Vincent called me at home yesterday to arrange dinner this evening. “And it was time for me to start getting out again,” I add softly.
His expression turns somber. “I’m sorry about Melanie.”
“Thanks, and thanks again for coming to her memorial service. I needed you there.”
“Sure.” He takes a sip from his nearly empty glass of gin. “Are you holding up okay?”
“Some days are better than others.” I take a couple of large gulps to catch up. God, the scotch tastes good. I can feel it relaxing me immediately.
Similar Books
